


i'll stand on the edge, give me a shove

by barnettdidit



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Depression, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:41:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25096282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barnettdidit/pseuds/barnettdidit
Summary: “Do you ever wonder what we’d be like without fucked up fathers?”Theo’s voice was meek, almost a whisper, like a child afraid to speak, daring to ask earnestly.Draco’s eyes followed a shooting star falling down.“We’d be less fucked up.”Or, how Draco spends his Christmas evenings after the war, and how Hermione plays an unexpected part in it.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 19
Kudos: 170





	i'll stand on the edge, give me a shove

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this for shits and giggles and i dont hate it anymore so here you go i guess
> 
> song the title is from: https://youtu.be/8RgaxLs_k-I  
> please give it a listen teddy hyde is my favourite artist atm i love him his songs are poetry

_December 25_ _th_ _, 1998_

Seven months after the Great Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy was bound to his bed. He was held there by continuous nightmares that woke him up screaming like a child over and over, day and night.

Images of his school falling to rubble around him, dead bodies of friends and foes lining every surface available, colourful shots of lethal spells bouncing around the air, just barely missing him. The insanity of war filling the air with screams, cries and other-worldly grunts as the very ground beneath them shook.

The memory of a young second year Ravenclaw he’d been forced to torture, the image of her jaw slacked open in an empty cry, her small body writhing with the pain he was inducing. He blinked back the tears, putting the little force he had left into the spell, knowing he would receive it himself if he didn’t comply, or even worse, they would give her a less held-back version of the Crucio.

He could still see her so vividly. The twin ponytails at either side of her head had frayed, tears and snot streaming down her red, pulsing cheeks, her body flailing and shaking uncontrollably with the force of his spell, screaming until her strained voice gave out; she'd be hoarse for days.

Sitting in the large dining room of his very own home, not daring to look up, lest he meet the eyes of the serial killer who lived in his house. Staring at Harry Potter’s mangled face as he refused to identify him; the screams of Hermione Granger reverberating around the halls, so uninhibited and raw, their ferocity making him shake as he stared at the floor, forcing himself to look away. The feral, animalistic yells and cries of the Dark Lord as he punished his family for failing him yet again.

Holding onto Potter for dear life as they narrowly escaped the murderous flames of the fiendfyre, watching helplessly as Crabbe drowned in the blaze, unable to control his own magic, tears and smoke burning in his eyes.

Raising his trembling wand to point at Albus Dumbledore, the only man capable of defeating the Dark Lord, crying and whimpering as he attempted to speak the killing words, all in the fruitless hopes that this would save his family.

Relishing in the serene, almost peaceful sensation of his drained mind starting to turn off, as if a warm blanket was enveloping him into a snug hug as he bled out on the bathroom floor, hearing Snape’s incantations as if they were far, far away, miles away. Few memories of his childhood, when he was still happy and unbothered, innocent and childish, no idea what life would be like in a few short years, playing through his mind as he wished for it to end, for the pain and sorrow to finally finish, forgetting the responsibilities of saving his family put upon him by a madman; and the inevitable disappointment when he woke up in the Hospital wing later, painfully alive and still breathing.

Vivid, terrible memories, seared into the skin behind his eyelids, kept him awake for days on end; Draco could not steal more than two consecutive hours of sleep. At some point, the roars of the fallen of the battle, the soundless yells of the young Ravenclaw and the tortured, raw screams of Hermione Granger all melted together and morphed into his own voice clawing and fighting out of his throat as he screamed himself awake into the pitch black night, early morning or late afternoon, tears he couldn't feel fall anymore marking his cheeks.

Time did not exist for Draco; he it in his childhood bedroom, barely leaving the bed. He only knew it was Christmas because the evening before, one of their last remaining house elves had plopped into his bedroom.

“Meekly is here to inform Master Malfoy that the Missus wants to have dinner for Christmas tonight”, she spoke in a high, squeaky voice that jolted Draco out of a catatonic daze. His joints screamed with the lack of movement; his body felt wooden unable to move or comply. He didn’t mind, because there was no use to moving anymore.

“I’m not coming”, he groaned into his pillow. His voice felt hoarse.

Everything hurt so bloody much.

It seemed that Meekly was not up for a discussion that night, because Draco just heard her plop away right after.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen Narcissa, or stepped foot outside his room. Every single part of this cursed house reminded him of what had happened here; the lives lost and his destroyed childhood.

The last time he’d seen his mother from the other end of the hallway, she had looked so frail and thin, it seemed as though it was a miracle she could still walk. Her usual perfectly done and manicured appearance had suffered greatly; she was but a shadow, and her dead eyes had met his own like a mirror.

He could see it in the look she gave him. He saw it every time he looked at himself in the mirror. She missed her husband, his father, and she hated herself for it; for not being able to let go of who Lucius once was, unable to confront he man he’d become. And as their gazes crossed for a short second, a flash of pain crossing her face, Draco knew why he couldn’t bear to face her anymore.

He reminded her too much of him.

Draco couldn’t look in the mirror anymore. All he saw was the face of a madman.

He wanted to waste away.

He didn’t even notice when the clock struck to announce that Christmas was officially over; he was screaming his throat hoarse with another panic attack induced of blue robes and ponytails shaking and trembling at his mercy.

Sometimes, he thought, he could hear his mother’s screams matching his own during the night. He knew, that was impossible though.

He just liked to imagine that he wasn’t alone.

_December 25t_ _h_ _, 1999_

A year and five months into Narcissa and Draco Malfoy’s mandatory two-year-long house arrest as decided by the Ministry, mother and son were sat in the newly renovated dining room. It was the first time since the war that Draco had entered what he remembered as the breeding ground for Voldemort’s plans, trials, meetings and punishments.

Just two days ago, he’d managed to catch a full four hours of sleep. It was a record, and he’d celebrated it by taking a few shots of fire whiskey and afterwards dragging himself out of the Manor’s wing that belonged entirely to him, stubbornly facing the floor when he passed the paintings and busts of his ancestors looking down at him. Judging him.

Last Christmas seemed lightyears away, like a memory hidden behind a wall of blurriness and uncertainty, blocking his mind; yet, the nightmares seemed ever so vivid. It might have been just yesterday or a decade ago; Draco couldn’t tell. Time had melted into one endless roundabout of the clock running circles; dates, hours, minutes and seconds didn’t matter anymore.

He simply existed. He was there, caged in a limbo of taunting screams of war and a cane hitting him when he did wrong; or worst of all, the pressure of a hand laying heavy on his shoulder, pinning him down with implications of punishments and taunts by the man he used to want to be so badly.

Eight months ago, Draco had gathered books about potions from their library and spent day and night absorbing information since. It was the only pastime he had; it was either that, or staring into his dark mirror without seeing, reliving terrors and horrors.

His mind had become a muddled mess of memories clinging to the past, reminding him day in and day out what he was, what he did, and that he couldn’t be forgiven.

_The Slytherin team bellowed with laughter at Draco’s jab at the state of the Gryffindor’s brooms and their very persistent lack of funding, something their team need not worry about, thanks to Draco’s father. The air vibrated with the hostility towards the Gryffindor’s._

_“At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to buy their way in, they got in on pure talent”, Hermione said, a sharp edge in her voice. Draco stalled for a moment, hateful slits peering at her. How dare she speak to him like that?_

_“No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood”, he spat, his words blinded with the festering animosity pulsing in his heart, and he didnt even notice the upheaval of people around them reacting to his words as Flint dived in front of him to keep the Weasel twins from attacking. He barely registered the ginger idiot pointing his wand at him while shouting hysterically, too focused on the hurt that flashed across the young girls’ face._

Draco had played his role in perpetuating the hate that festered into a full-on war, and memories of bullying Muggleborns as a young, stupid boy kept him awake at night, sobbing into his pillow.

He could never forgive himself.

The persistent state of mere existence he was caught in had caused him to be surprised when this morning, loyal Meekly had plopped into his bedroom again to ask what she had asked a year ago already. This time, Draco decided to comply.

He definitely remembered seeing his mother a few times since last Christmas; some time later, be it weeks or months, he had noticed the house coming to life again. Narcissa had started to renovate the grimiest parts of the mansion, the ones that carried the most murder and pain in their air. The previously black and grey, tiled surfaces and eerie hallways of his childhood had slowly been turned into a lighter version, flooded with radiating, white marble and comfortable cherry wood.

As Draco left his own wing of the Manor, yet untouched by Narcissa’s magic, he had been struck by the utterly new surroundings. He could barely remember what it used to look like now; of course, in part because it looked astonishingly different, but also, because he hadn’t seen certain parts in over 18 months. By the time he rounded the tall doorway into the dining room, he had already forgotten it was Christmas.

“Draco. My dear.”

The foreign voice of his mother made him flinch violently. He had barely been able to take in the marble tiles, high arching windows allowing natural light and gorgeously ornated pillars structuring the room into somewhat separate sections, when his mother had already gotten up from the table she was sat at, coming towards him.

Draco couldn’t remember the last time before the end of the war, that he’d seen his mother wearing something other than fancy, black robes, artistically styled hair, perfectly manicured like a made up doll.

She was wearing a light, beige cloak that didn’t hide the white cashmere sweater underneath and most surprisingly, black formal pants. Draco had never seen his mother in pants in his entire life.

Her once perfect hair, not a single strand out of place, was held together in a simple ponytail, revealing the stresses of war.

She looked tired, he thought; the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes had multiplied since he’d last seen her, etched into her skin with exhaustion. But somehow, her light eyes lit up with awe as she walked towards him, a relieved smile on her unpainted lips.

Today was a day of many firsts it seemed, because before he could even muster up a greeting or just a noise, she had enveloped him in a hug. Draco froze like a statue for a moment, still, muscle memory forcing him to stay put and not react.

Then he remembered that Lucius was nowhere nearby, and with a shaky sigh, he raised his arms to wrap them around his mother.

He hadn’t hugged someone in so long, Draco realized, that he’d forgotten just how comforting it felt. And laying in his mother arms on Christmas morning, allowing her to hold her only son, burying his noise in her sweet, childhood smell, he thought that maybe, there was room for healing in this vast mansion.

And even though they barely spoke during dinner, even though he could sense her watching him with a blank stare when he seemed distracted, as if she were waiting for him to turn into his father and pounce on her; even though the dining table had one free spot, entirely untouched and ignored by all participants yet screaming with its apparent emptiness; even though conversation was awkward and included more silent stretches than continuous talking, when Draco went to bed that night, he could not help the spark of light in his heart warming his chest as he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

_December 25_ _th_ _, 2000_

The news of Lucius’ death had found Draco on Christmas Eve.

He had not made plans to celebrate the holiday. He just wanted to work, skillfully ignore old memories of celebrating the day with his seemingly normal family when he was yet too young to understand that what his name stood for was not something to be proud of. Memories of the first Christmas after the war, which he’d spent crying and screaming as the seconds ticked by, haunted by the abuse he’d endured from his father.

Images of himself at the young age of eleven, coming home from the first few months at Hogwarts, proudly showing Luicius his grades – the second best ones out of the entire First Year – just to be yelled at, scolded and hit with the cursed serpent cane because a _Mudblood_ had trumped him.

Draco knew, deep down, that after his father got sentenced to life in Azkaban, he wouldn’t survive long. Their name was to prevalent, too big in Wizarding history, for no one to take matters into their own hand and punish the Head of the Malfoy house as they saw fit. Lucius had survived for just over two years, before an anonymous inmate had savagely beaten him up until his frail heart gave out.

When his mother’s letter reached Draco, he merely thought it was one of many she sent every week ever since he’d moved out of the Manor into a small London flat, if only to escape the house he had suffered in for the majority of his life. He had expected updates on the renovations of his personal wing; maybe a book she had found in the library that she thought he might want; anything but the tear stained parchment with smeared ink, almost intelligibly telling him that Lucius had finally died.

Many times, Draco had imagined what it would feel like to know his father was dead. When he was eleven, whimpering and hurting in his own room, holding his swollen, sore cheek, his punishment for not being the very best. Before fourth year, during the Quidditch tournament, knowing Lucius was one of many Death Eaters under a robe, terrorizing innocent sports fans. Hearing the news of Potter’s break-in into the ministry, and how big a role his father had played in the reveal of Voldemort’s return.

When he almost killed Katie Bell and Ron Weasley in an attempt to assassinate Dumbledore, knowing that Lucius was the one who had brought them into this mess, a mess a 15 year old had to handle now.

In July 1998, when Narcissa and him received their house arrest penalty, and Lucius was sentenced to life in Azkaban.

Draco had imagined many times what it would feel like to know. The knowledge that the man who had destroyed his life, the man he’d looked up to as his sole role model, the man who had cared more for a psychopath’s ideologies than his own family’s safety; the knowledge that this very man had died.

As his eyes read the letter over and over, a numb sensation spreading from the bottom of his stomach and overtaking his body, a lightness taking over his head and deafening him, he now knew that he felt absolutely nothing at his father’s death.

There was no anger, no sadness, no joy in his mind; there was nothing but weightless cotton filling his head to the brim.

He felt his body move from his study, getting up and leaving the room. He saw the letter falling to the ground carelessly.

He walked to the dark living room, lit up by the colourful lights decorating the metropolitan street outside. He opened his liquor cabinet and took the first bottle he saw, liquid sloshing around inside as he raised it to his lips and drank as much as he could before his body started revolting and coughing.

Draco could not remember how the rest of that night and the following day passed; he only knew that he had spent it on the living room carpet, his dead body unmoving, sleeping childhood memories away as they slipped through his fingers like water, and when he could hear again, the sounds of Christmas carols outside his window seeped into his dreams like syrupy poison; distorting the abusive Christmases of the past into an unbothered, child-like world filled with sweet songs and loving parents.

Draco was unable to face himself in the mirror for the next three weeks.

_December 25t_ _h_ _, 2001_

The tumbler clinked when Theo sloppily refilled it with fire whiskey, and Draco raised his glass to his mouth, taking another sip as he watched his friend struggle.

He slipped and a good swig of golden-brown liquid splashed onto the short, dark oak table, and Theo spluttered a string of vivid swear words that would make any respectable person, wizard or muggle, shudder.

“You know, you could just use your wand to do that”, Draco drawled, waving his own to clean up the mess. Theo ignored him, filling his glass to the brim and falling back into the plush armchair by the enormous fireplace they were sitting at.

“You know you look much prettier with that mouth shut”, Theo grumbled into his glass, taking a sip. Draco held his glass up to the light and watched the liquid blink and reflect the light.

“I thought we were celebrating me.”

“Not anymore.”

Draco chuckled.

Six months ago, while wandering the streets of London after a good morning jog, he had run into his old housemate who was out in Central Park, bird-watching without binoculars at five am. Draco liked the early London mornings; they were relentlessly cold, unpopulated and the freezing air burned in his lungs in a way that made him feel alive. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do; he could go run at any time of the day, but he liked watching the sun rise with barely anyone around.

Theo had not given a reason for his early birdwatching; the hobby had never come up again since. Nonetheless, they had gone out for lunch and caught up.

Draco didn’t mention the complete and utter lack of a social life, much less a romantic one, neither his year long depression under house arrest. Theo did not detail how his life had gone since the war either, and both men came to an unspoken agreement to rather share their present and future, instead of looking back at the past.

Thus, Draco’s non-existent social life had expanded to include one single person, and Theo abused that privilege to his best abilities. Especially now, that he’d helped him secure a primitive desk job in the Auror’s department.

“You do understand that I basically own you now. A favour this huge is gonna have to be repaid for a lifetime”, Theo said after a while of silent staring into the bright flames.

Draco scoffed.

“I thought being in your presence is favour enough. I’m much more delightful than you like to admit.”

Theo sat up and waggled a warning finger in Draco’s direction. “That is a gross understatement of the trauma I have to endure just looking at your bloody heinous mug- “

“I thought you just called me pretty- “

“Only if you shut up, and none of that has been going on for a while now.”

Draco chuckled once again, and they fell into a comfortable silence.

The licking flames threw shadows along the high walls of the Nott library they were in; the ceiling was charmed similarly to the one in the Great Hall at Hogwarts, and Draco laid his head back, gazing into the star-dotted sky.

The crackling and sizzling fire had melted into a meditative backdrop and Draco was almost asleep, when suddenly –

“Do you ever wonder what we’d be like without fucked up fathers?”

Theo’s voice was meek, almost a whisper, like a child afraid to speak, daring to ask earnestly.

Draco’s eyes followed a shooting star falling down.

“We’d be less fucked up.”

His hoarse words were the last thing spoken that night, and Draco didn’t mind one bit.

_December 25_ _th_ _, 2002_

They had forced Draco to join them, and while he knew that the invitation to spend the evening with them too, was born of pure politeness and not the actual desire for his presence, he had allowed himself to indulge in an afternoon with what one could possibly call his _friends._

Soon after starting his work at the Ministry, Draco was bewildered to find out that Theo was actually capable of having friends that somewhat liked having him around. And since the olive branch the wizard held out to him just wouldn’t end, soon enough, Draco was joining them.

It was an odd mix of people that his teenaged self screamed at him to bully and judge, but seeing as Draco had given up all hope for any kind of nourishing friendships over two years ago, and despite his own insistence that one did not need friends to survive in a world as puny as this, he soon shamefully discovered that spending time with people actually felt nice.

The feeling that he did not deserve to be there, and that he was just faking it; that they would soon find out just how despicable he was and abandon him in the process, didn’t leave. For the first few months, Draco was convinced that there was an inevitable slip up coming. He didn’t know what exactly; his prejudices were a thing of the past and he had no energy left to be jealous of Harry Potter. If anything, he was thankful that the boy had managed to put a stop to the hell he once lived in.

Still, though; the voice in his mind screaming _fraud_ and _liar_ and _crook_ did not shut up. He couldn’t help but feel out of place. Deep down, he knew he didn’t belong between Dean Thomas and Lavender Brown during a night out at the pub. As if at any moment, one of them could wake up, point at him and yell _“It’s Draco Malfoy, who the fuck allowed him in here?!”_ because he just wasn’t part of this happy, social life.

He wanted to come to terms with that, he told himself that week after week; that if they decided to push him out for obvious reasons, he would just pick himself up and carry on like he did before.

But Draco knew, somewhere deep down, that it would kill him. Even though he knew that he didn’t deserve friends and happiness because well, he was Draco Malfoy, he had foolishly let himself become accustomed to a life with friends. He didn’t deserve their forgiveness.

He would never deserve it.

But he was a weak, unwise moron, and so he allowed himself to become part of a world he would never fit into.

So he accepted an invited to a day out with the people he used to despise and now depended on for his sanity.

And somehow, he found himself gripping a hot mug of chocolate while sitting in the backyard of the hilariously toppled Burrow, sitting in a haphazard circle of old classmates, a primitive fire burning in their middle while cheesy Christmas music played from a radio.

And while he listened to Weasley and Finnigan having a heated discussion about Quidditch tactics, watching Potter and his Weasley zoom around on brooms while laughing and giggling, Zabini, Brown and Dean tinkering with the punch while whispering conspicuously and Lovegood and Granger dance drunkenly in the flattened fields surrounding them, his heart jumped a beat at Granger’s dress fluttering in the wind, her wild hair blowing around her uncontrollably, yet giggling and laughing unbothered.

And when he shared a look with Nott who winked at him knowingly, remembering the last Christmas they’d spent together, Draco knew that this evening was just a blow in time and he was going to go home soon to his empty, lifeless flat and sleep the next few days away, still praying that he could truly and unashamedly be a part of this carefree life; even with that knowledge, right then, Draco could not care less.

He had never experienced the present quite like this.

_December 25t_ _h_ _, 2003_

This year, they had insisted that Draco stay for the official festivities. And for once, he could not manage to find an excuse to leave; this was mainly for the fact that he didn’t want to leave.

This time, the newly wed Potter-Weasley union had opened their doors at Grimmauld Place 12 to receive visitors; Draco arrived there at exactly seven, clutching a neatly packed gift.

They had organized a Secret Santa. It was juvenile, childish and something Lucius would have forbidden him to take part in, so Draco jumped at the opportunity to defy his late father’s wishes, and when he pulled Hermione Granger’s name three weeks ago, the opportunity had made his heart jump into his throat while simultaneously dropping to the bottom of his stomach.

One might believe that while Draco now begrudgingly accepted that he was in fact, capable of having friends, his romantic life was yet another matter. He would have been quite glad to ignore this for the rest of his time, because he knew all too well that long-lasting relationships were not the kind of thing that happened to deeply traumatized and utterly broken, former blood supremacists. This was why he stuck to short flings every now and then, when his libido demanded for it.

He had firmly believed himself incapable of love, until he met Hermione Granger.

Really, really met her, through nights of talking and voicing their thoughts to each other. Hermione was a witty, stubborn, sometimes socially inept and obnoxiously smart wonder that dug her claws into his mind and refused to let go. Of course it was Draco’s luck to fall for the most sought after muggleborn witch of their generation; ever since she’d broken up with Weasley, she had bemoaned the seemingly endless number of admirers falling to her feet and asking her out, all the while staring at her empty-eyed like she was nothing more than brains on feet.

She had voiced these issues more than once after one or two beer too many, and Draco had patiently listened every time. He learned that she had a rather warped perception of herself; she believed that people only sought her out because of her Golden Girl status, her brightness and intelligence. She was adorably unaware of the fact that she was, on top of being self-confident and smart, unfairly gorgeous.

Draco also learned that she was a passionate advocate for everything that concerned the rights of Magical Creatures and animals in general; that she volunteered at homeless shelters and organizations that rescued animals while still working a full job at the Ministry, and that she was well on her way to become the Head of her own subdivision.

He learned that after the war, she had tried to retrieve her parents from Australia, only to discover that their memory loss was irreversible, and that this fact kept her up and night, crying and sobbing at her sacrifice. He learned that at least once a week, she woke up screaming from memories of the war, seeing young people die at the hand of the people whose side Draco used to be on.

Hermione was the first one he told about the Ravenclaw girl he’d tortured and she gave him the tightest hug he’d ever received, one that made him fear for a second that his joints would pop and he would just melt right into her. She assured him that whoever this girl was, she knew that he’d had no other choice, and she was in her seventh year now, well and healthy. And while Draco didn’t quite believe her, because the slack-jawed, silent cry would still jolt him awake every now and then, he appreciated her words and what she was trying to do.

So it turned out, that he was quite capable of having feelings for people, but knowing the competition he had – one could barely call it a competition because well, he wasn’t even attempting to fight for something he would never get anyway – he had decided to just take what he got, which was Hermione Granger’s friendship. And Draco was quite sure there was nothing in the world he’d exchange that for.

So he’d spent weeks thinking about what to get her; he wanted to, he _needed_ to get her something worthwhile, something she deserved, while not making it blatantly obvious that he was helplessly in love with her.

The choice fell on something that would cost any normal person a fortune, but for Draco, anything was worth making her happy. It barely grazed his bank account anyway.

Once they had all gathered in the Potter residence, all the presents underneath a comically large Christmas tree with the tip bending along the ceiling, one after the other, they started unpacking their present.

Theo got an aquarium with a largened interior charm for his newly-obtained pet lizard Earl he had gotten earlier this month. Weasley had gifted himself a generous bottle of fire whiskey, Finnigan and Dean gave each other the exact same pair of quidditch gloves and when it was Draco’s turn to unpack his rather small present – actually so sizeable, it comfortably fit in the palm of his hand – he was nervous, feeling the eyes of everyone on him.

A luminous red badge fell onto his lap and he turned it over to read the words “ _Malfoy stinks_ ”.

When he held it up for everyone to see, the house shook with roaring laughter.

Then, he saw a small note that said “ _Push it_ ”, and when he did, the badge changed to show a white ferret bouncing around the inside edges of the button, and when he showed this to everyone, soon people were wiping tears and gliding from whatever surface they were sitting on onto the floor.

“Who did this?!”, he called through the chaos and Harry, whose glasses had slid down the bridge of his nose from the continuous wiping his eyes free of laughing tears, raised his hand.

“I had Hermione help me”, the black-haired wizard replied, gasping or air as he held his stomach, once Ron’s high-pitched wheezing had simmered down to a continuous whistling.

“I made those on my own when I was thirteen and you couldn’t manage alone at twenty three?!”

After that, everyone descended into mad laughter again and this time, Draco joined until his stomach hurt and his eyes welled with tears.

The rest of the gift unpacking passed in a blur, and Draco became more impatient with every minute passing by.

Finally, Hermione picked up her present and turned it around in her hands, weighing it, already smiling like an excited child. Draco knew that pretty much anything would have made her happy, because she always said the thought was what really counted, but his stomach was still churning horribly.

Small conversation bubbles had already formed; Finnigan and Dean were somehow comparing their identical gloves, Theo was talking to an invisible lizard in his hand as he showed him the new aquarium, Zabini was already reading the first chapter of his new book about muggle architecture alongside Brown, who was reading her own about muggle fashion from the last century, and Hermione held light conversation with Lovegood, who was looking delightedly odd with her new earrings made of what seemed to be somehow intact butterfly wings.

Draco was loosely participating in the Quidditch discussion between Finnigan and Dean, carefully watching Hermione across the room, when she finally opened the present and unwrapped it.

As she read the title of her favourite book, “ _Pride and Prejudice_ ”, and his note on top that said “ _It’s a First Edition_ ”, she gave a surprised squeak and held it up before her as if it was pure gold.

She showed the book to Luna and Ginny, all three in pure awe, and as the redhead picked it up and carefully opened it up, Draco felt Hermione’s burning gaze in the side of his head as he talked utter nonsense with the two wizards beside him.

Hours later, after people had dispersed into small groups all around the house, Draco found himself in the drawing room, colourful Christmas lights from the street outside illuminating the tapestry of the Black family.

He searched the generations upon generations of his mother’s ancestors until he got down to his own branch, his own name and likeness stitched into the cover.

If these were different times, if different people lived here, Draco was convinced that there would be a smoldering, black hole akin to Sirius Blacks where his name stood now. But as it were, the Potters lived here now, and there was no need to erase the shame the Malfoy’s had brought upon their ancestors.

His wand was slipping out of its habitual place in his sleeve into his hand, and Draco barely noticed himself pointing it at his own name, fiery sparks springing from the tip, the temptation too high.

The feeling of truly belonging had never reached him, even to this day, even with a Malfoy stinks badge pinned to his sweater.

Approaching steps ripped him out of his near trance and Draco flinched as he realized how close his wand was to his name. He turned his face towards the door as Hermione entered, looking around tentatively.

“Hey.”

She gave him a comforting smile and he reciprocated it.

“Hey.”

As she wrapped her arms around her torso, she stepped next to him.

“What are you doing?”

“Just admiring my family tree”, he replied, and Hermione nodded. Her eyes were scanning the Black family tree from top to bottom until they rested on his name at the very bottom, and Draco watched her. The bright lights from outside illuminated her profile, dancing and flitting over her cheeks mesmerizingly.

Somewhere in the far distance, still within the house, drunk voices sloppily started singing Christmas Carols.

They spoke at the same time.

“Thank you for helping Harry with this badge- “

“Were you my secret Santa?”

Draco’s voice died with a gulp when she turned to face him, a stubborn determination written across her face. He knew that expression all to well; it was the one she had look at him at when she convinced him to attend tonight’s party, and the same she had used when he had gotten a job offer to work for a potion’s master he hadn’t been too sure about accepting or not.

He had accepted in the end.

“We’re not supposed to tell whose secret Santa we are”, Draco said, heat rising to his cheeks. Hermione squinted at him, pursing her lips.

“You had no problem asking who yours was earlier.”

Draco bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling, averting his gaze.

“Well then, maybe I was.”

His eyes were fixed on the tapestry, but he stole a quick side glance at Hermione, a grin spreading on his face when he saw her flabbergasted expression.

“Draco! You shouldn’t have!”

In quick succession, she slapped his shoulder, and suddenly, he had an arm full of Hermione Granger as she leapt into his arms, hugging him tightly.

He laughed as he held onto her, turning on the spot with the force with which she had jumped at him, and her arms snaked around his neck, squeezing tightly.

“Why didn’t you tell me immediately?”, she asked.

“Because I knew you’d want to pay me back right away.”

She pulled back to face him.

“Speaking of which, how much was it?”, she asked innocently, and Draco couldn’t help but laugh again.

“I’m not telling you. It’s a gift, just enjoy it.”

Hermione pouted, sticking her tongue out at him, and he smiled even broader.

“How’d you know it was from me, anyway?”, he asked.

Just then, he noticed how close they still were; his arms wrapped around her waist, hers around his neck, slender fingers playing with the collar of his sweater. His breath hitched.

Hermione looked at him for a few moments then, contemplating her answer.

“No one else would have remembered my favourite book.”

The soberness in her voice, the earnest, uninhibitedly open look she gave him almost made his knees buckle. Fingers were slowly stroking at the nape of his neck and he wanted to burn the feeling into his mind.

“I can’t be the only one who knows Pride and Prejudice is your favourite book. You talk about it constantly”, he deflected. Hermione shook her head slowly, still watching him.

“Nobody pays attention like you do”, she whispered, her honey eyes boring into his.

“I just – It’s nothing really, anybody would do it- “, he stammered, his pathetic voice betraying him, and he resisted the urge to close his eyes in shame.

“Only you would have thought to do it”, she murmured, and with a jolting heartbeat, Draco realized that she was leaning closer, up to him, watching him carefully for any sign of resistance.

As if he could ever resist Hermione Granger.

A flash of red and yellow Christmas lights shining across her attentive features were the last thing he saw before he dove down to meet her lips halfway.

It was soft and sweet, no haste or desperation akin to his past hook-ups; only a soft, feminine sigh vibrating in her chest when he pressed his lips to hers, peppering her mouth with kiss after kiss. His hands moved to grab a fistful of her hair and angle her head to allow him access to her mouth. Her fingers were tugging, clutching at his hair, holding him so close, he wondered if they could ever move apart again, because he surely did not want to.

Everything about this moment, holding a melting Hermione Granger in his arms as she mewled into his mouth, their bodies pressed flush together, was unapologetically perfect.

And with all the practice Draco had gotten over the last few years, he finally allowed himself to relish in a stolen minute of blissful, unadulterated happiness.

For years to follow, Theo would still complain about how the Secret Santa of 2003 was unfair since obviously, Draco had received more than one gift that evening.

_December 25_ _th_ _, 2004_

The night had passed in a heinous blur of nightmares and memories warped by time and perception. Every now and then, images of his crazed father, dead bodies and a young Ravenclaw crying, resurfaced to plague Draco’s nights.

These phases had become infinitely more tolerable ever since he woke himself up screaming, only to find himself in Hermione’s arms, who, without a fail, always clung to him and wrapped herself around his body, hugging him tightly until his panic attacks calmed down and he could see and hear clearly again.

Nothing could possibly soothe his frantic mind more than coming to consciousness to a reality where Hermione was wrapped around him, whispering sweet nothings in his ears while rubbing soothing circles into his shoulder blades. And every time she woke up screaming, crying of her parents and the torture she had suffered at the hand of his manic aunt, Draco held her until she fell asleep again.

As it turned out, after years of harboring a hermit existence, healing was best achieved with someone at your side. And he could not imagine anyone better at his side than Hermione.

When Draco woke up on Christmas morning, wrapped in the sheets of their bed, alone, he stayed put for a moment, listening for Hermione.

Quiet Christmas music was playing from somewhere within the apartment, and when got up to dress himself flimsily, following the music down the hall, he soon heard the familiar clinking of someone being active in his small kitchen.

He found her as he rounded the corner, leaning in the doorframe, watching his oblivious girlfriend move around the counter, murmuring, sometimes tapping her foot, swaying her hips, moving with the rhythm of the music.

The kitchen was in disarray; several cabinets were wide open, the entire counter top and the stove were covered in a layer of flour and packets of baking powder, sugar, chocolate chips, flour and a half empty egg carton were strewn around on all available surfaces.

She was wearing an old Slytherin shirt of his – one that never stayed on her long once he saw it – sleeping shorts and her untamed hair had been forced into a toppling bun at the top of her head. She was unabashedly beautiful.

“Are you baking for a family of six?”, he spoke after a while, deciding that he’d watched for long enough. Hermione, completely blindsided by her boyfriend in the door, flinched and wheeled around.

“Draco! Merlin, no, I- “

He stepped closer and peered over her shoulder at what she was doing. Clay-like lumps of dough with spots of black chocolate in between were arranged on a baking tray.

“I was trying to bake, obviously. I messed up a bit”, she mumbled, nibbling at her fingertips as she turned to look at the cookie dough clumps with a drawn brow, severely critical of her own work. Draco caught her by surprise as he wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her up with ease, eliciting a shriek that melted into a delighted giggle.

“Let me down!”, she laughed, patting at his shoulders, and he turned to set her down on the counter, swiping it free with his arm. Her protests soon melted into a sigh when he kissed her, hands travelling underneath his own shirt, exploring her skin, still sore from last night.

As he stood between her legs that loosely wrapped around his hips, peppering kisses along her jawline, he brought out small, delicious sighs as her hands rested on his shoulder, tightening when his thumb brushed along the underside of her breast.

He could have done this for hours on end, just lazily making out with her in the early morning. Soon enough, she pushed slightly at his chest until their lips disconnected.

“The cookies are gonna burn”, she breathed, and Draco gave her another peck before stepping back.

Hermione’s cooking and baking skills were not akin to those of a chef, but she had improved a lot over the past year. And Draco could never keep her from living out her Christmas spirit; the same Christmas spirit that hit him like the Hogwarts Express when he walked into his living room now, faced with a brightly coloured, flashing and blinking Christmas tree, hung with old and new ornaments she had recently bought or retrieved from her old childhood home. Christmas lights were hung around the edges of the ceiling, the fireplace crackled and sizzled, festive music played from the radio, and a small tower of gifts rested underneath the branches of the tree.

It was the first time ever that Draco had bothered to get a Christmas tree; it was also the first time since the war since he’d seen so many presents at once.

And once Hermione had given up on her baking, presenting him with a platter of cement-like atrocities that looked like utterly wrong, warped version of chocolate cookies – of which he ate one, wondering after if wizard perhaps did need something like dentist-like teeth healers – they had sat down to open their presents. Hermione, as always, received a multitude of books that nearly made her jump on the spot with joy, and Draco, surprisingly, received a fair share of his own; a knitted jumper from Molly Weasley in an atrocious orange colour that had a large, emerald green “D” on it; an old, valuable potions kit from Potter, several books on potions and Quidditch, and a plush lizard sewn at its paws to hold hands with a plush ferret – from Theo, obviously.

They wasted the day watching horrific muggle Christmas movies on the small TV Hermione had acquired him – “so he could meet muggle culture a bit better” – eating delicious Indian take-out, reading their new books in bed as he rested his head on her stomach and at the very end, falling asleep to yet another horrendous muggle movie on TV.

They were lain stretched out on the couch, Hermione on top of him with her head on her chest, facing the screen, laughing and talking about how unrealistic the story was. By the time the credits started rolling, Hermione was fast asleep.

Draco watched the seconds tick past midnight, and he knew then that he was not alone anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> come bully me on twitter at @barnettdidit
> 
> i hope you enjoyed, if so, please consider leaving kudos!!


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